


Love and Death

by Kadira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Dark, Dark Harry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kadira/pseuds/Kadira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new Dark Lord has found a way to control his darkness</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Death

**Author's Note:**

> * another very old story  
> * D/s, BDSM, character death, very dark, AU, dark!Harry

Nobody bothers him as he crosses the dim corridors. They all know better. The low whispers surrounding him give him one of the rare moments in which he has the luxury to think, to review. He isn't quite sure if he should be grateful for it. Most of times, it is a curse. Being confronted over and over with the very vivid images of terror and pain, of hearing over and over again the screams of agony, of feeling the terrible helplessness before the explosion, before the awakening. Before the knowledge that he did exactly as it was expected of him, that he, in the end, had been nothing more than a marionette, dancing as the puppet master ordered. Only in his case he hadn't one but two of them, both with different goals, but with the same ruthless ambition, willing to do everything and to use everybody on their way to reach their goal.  
  
But somehow he doubts that they would be happy with the result.  
  
With an internal shrug he approaches the wooden door that leads into his sanctum. The only place where he will find peace, and where he can hope to keep his sanity.  
  
It arrives on time - again. Like yesterday, or the week ago, or just like a few hours ago. He can feel the darkness lurking in the shadows. Not in those around him, but those at the edges of his consciousness. Looming there already for some time, waiting for him to give in, to lose precious control, if only for a few moments so that it can attack. Making him dangerous and unpredictable - just like one of the puppet masters had wanted. Maybe even both. You can't be sure with either of them.  
  
It is another fight he has won. A fight that, in many aspects, is much harder than the one against Voldemort, for this time he is his own enemy. But fortunately he's found something to keep it at bay. Thanks to the sleeping figure on the wide bed in the middle of the room. At least he thinks the man is sleeping and not still unconscious.  
  
He slowly approaches to take a closer look. The soft up and down of the hairless chest and the even breathing show him that he's right. He sits down beside the pale body, deciding to wait. Not necessarily out of consideration, but to let the darkness grow until it reaches the critical point of no return that makes his whole body tingle with excitement. It is one of the few pleasures he still allows himself. He lets his hand hover over the motionless body, not quite touching. The pale skin is not as flawless as it had been before his capture, but still beautiful. If anything, the scars decorating the body make it even more attractive. To him, at least. But then again, it should. He is the one who is the cause of most of them.  
  
He smiles at the memory of the blade sliding into the soft skin like nothing and the whip raising welts from which thin rivers of blood well up and which flow paints a wonderful abstract image on the pale skin. Each bruise and each mark on the pale flesh tell a history, he realizes as he lets his finger wander over the cool skin. A history that didn't first start with the final big war, but much earlier, he recalls as he sits back and waits for his mind to be consumed, to be freed.  
  
For some unknown reason Lucius Malfoy made it very personal, right from their first meeting in the bookshop years ago, when the battle had not even really started. He can't really recall just how long ago it was. Too many deaths ago, years before his hands had first been dipped into blood that he even now, after all this time, can't wash off. Before he knew what other losses he would have to endure.  
  
He recalls their meeting in the bookstore and what accompanied it: the fear and the rage he felt within him, caused by the arrogance and self-assurance the other wizard radiated. Something that never changed, no matter how often they met. Enemies on a completely different level than he and Draco. And then the real war had started ...  
  
He closes his eyes at the rage he feels when he thinks of all the people who suffered at the hands of the man in his bed and of those like him. It is a demanding and overwhelming rage that needs to be feed. It is the same rage, just much stronger, than the one that is responsible for some of the more savage scars on the pale body.  
  
He is just glad that he didn't give in to the rage and the darkness when it demanded its final price. For if he ever gave it what it wanted, even once, he would be completely lost. Without the other man on his side there wouldn't be a light anymore for him to return to. Not because of some misunderstood sentiment, although he isn't quite sure how to describe the delicious mix of emotions he feels whenever he is near his former enemy. It is because of what they share, of what Lucius does to him and gives him. Not quite willingly, but he does nevertheless. Or maybe he does it willingly. He has no idea for Lucius has stopped fighting a long time ago already. But sometimes one could get the impression that he enjoys it. Or perhaps it is just the result of the close proximity between them and the general situation.  
  
He thinks he read about something like that in a muggle book once, long ago.  
  
Before.  
  
But the name refuses to come to him. All he remembers is that it was about the dynamic between prisoner and subjugator and the relationship that couldn't help but be formed. Or maybe it is something else, something that fits even better. Not that it would change anything if he could put a name to their situation. It is as it is and nothing will change it. It is far too late for that. Salvation and redemption are out of reach. The only anchorage he still has is here, - with Lucius, who feeds his rage with his suffering and his submission, who gives and gives and gives, and who would give until nothing would be left anymore, until the darkness would demand its final prize and Lucius wouldn't be anymore. No escape. Not for Lucius and certainly not for him.  
  
For some reason he can't fathom this awakens a wave of strange emotions within him. Or maybe it is just the darkness, making its still persisting presence known. Not that it really matters ...  
  
He remembers exactly the day when Lucius broke. Not quite, but very much. It was the day when he told him that Narcissa was to be executed. His pain had been almost tangible. It wasn't the kind of pain he took pleasure in inflicting on former 'Mr. I redefined Arrogance'. It was too much. Nothing subtle, nothing to work with. It hadn't satisfied the demon within him, but had even made him feel sorry for Lucius Malfoy. It had been the last day they had exchanged words. Since then the only thing existent between them has been silence and sensation. It is enough. There is no need to speak for everything that could have been said was said months ago.  
  
Though, he isn't quite sure if Lucius really doesn't feel the need to talk, if he has resigned himself to his fate, or if his silence is a last attempt to defy him. But whatever it is, Harry doesn't feel the need to change anything. He relishes the silence. That what is between them is just about existing and trying to stay sane. At least for one of them. He isn't quite sure if Lucius didn't go the same way like so many of his victims, ... like Hermione ...  
  
Sometimes there is this light in the grey eyes, a light that could indicate that he's still somewhere inside the body, inside the man who keeps him safe and sane with his mere presence. But he isn't sure. And in the end, it doesn't matter. They are what they are. Victim and victim. Conqueror and captive of each other, themselves, and, even more, the darkness. Spoils of war.  
  
They know it, of course. Dumbledore, Fudge, all of them. But they think it is an acceptable price to pay. Much better than the alternative or speaking up and ending in Lucius' place. They are afraid of him and what he has become. Not that he blames them. On the contrary. He knows himself well enough to know that they are right, at least partly. He doubts that anybody else could feed and satisfy the darkness within him (and him) the way Lucius can. It is something different between them. Maybe it is their briefly shared history or their mutual hate. He doesn't know. Not for sure. All he knows is that being around Lucius, no matter if it is to fuck, to beat, or to do something else with him, keeps the rage at bay. At least for some time for the darkness lies in waiting, always. 24/7, every moment of his whole damned life, waiting for the moment that the Boy Who Unfortunately Still Lives will lose control and allow it in. And more often than not it happens.  
  
But he has found a way to control it. Thanks to one (not quite so arrogant anymore) Lucius Malfoy who just happens to be his spoil of war. A very deserved one, too. His toy, a slave to every whim of the every present darkness and to its (and so Harry's own) every desire.  
  
He can't say what compelled him not to kill Lucius as soon as the deed was done and Voldemort was dead. What distinguished him so from the rest of the group that challenged him that he didn't share Pettigrew's, Lestrange's, or Avery's fate. Hate, need, the realization that the Death Eater, the one who has caused him so much pain could keep him sane,…? He has no idea. But whatever it was, it is something to be grateful for. For he knows that he wouldn't have lasted this long without what they have.  
  
In an almost affectionate gesture, he traces the artistically administered welts on the bare back, and lets his hands wander down. Over a particularly bad cut near the other man's hip he hovers for a moment, before he heals it with a thought. He can't say why he did it. An upwelling of compassion or rather to make sure that his prize won't become useless too fast? He couldn't say it if his life depended on it. It was, like Lucius' capture in the first place, an instinctive act.  
  
A groan interrupts his line of thoughts. The slight movement under his hand as Lucius awakes stirs the darkness within him. Still, Harry holds it back. There is one more thing he has to do. He stands up and gets the bottle that Severus gave him just this morning. Although it seems unlikely, his former professor is still an ally, the only one still at his side. He unscrews the small glass bottle and presses it against soft lips that still carry the marks of the last time he had to battle the darkness.  
  
"Drink."  
  
Eyes fly open as the liquid burns in the wounds. But that is all the reaction he gets. Lucius doesn't put up a fight and simply drinks the poison that makes it impossible for him to use his powers.  
  
 _A pity_ , the darkness within Harry whispers. It loves a good fight. Not only now and then, but always. But it is one of only a very few things where the former Death Eater can still defy it (and so Harry). With this too obvious and too graceful submission, Lucius refuses to feed the darkness even more. It is in such moments with this subtle sign of disobedience and rebellion that Harry can see part of the arrogant bastard who made his life into a living hell with no care for anything but his own prestige and gaining more power.  
  
Warily, Lucius observes him, obviously waiting for a hint of what to expect this time. The barely visible flinch as he strokes absently over his back tells stories about past encounters only too clearly and for a short moment Harry feels something like guilt and, even more, pity for his former enemy welling up within him, not at least because he's the cause of this reaction. There was a time that he would never even have thought of doing such things, but that was long before the darkness took residence within him. The feeling doesn't stay long before the overwhelming memories of what Lucius is responsible for find a way into his consciousness. As clearly as if it happened just yesterday, he can see Hermione's body lying on the frozen ground beside the lake. And Colin, and Hagrid ... the screams of the young girl that made it sound as if being Crucified was a most pleasant way to spend one's afternoon ...  
  
The trembling that suddenly takes hold of the body below him and a flash of fear in the grey eyes is sign enough that Lucius is very well aware of what just took place. It is also the last thing Harry clearly remembers before the door finally opens and pain, fear and hate crosses the already thin border and overwhelms him. Darkness invades his mind and directs his actions, darkness jeweled with dots of red, the same red that has haunted his dreams for longer than he can count, which has destroyed his life more often than he cares to count, and which is now responsible for the current situation.  
  
And then all rationality flees, leaving him alone in the clutches of the temporary madness that has become such a constant part of his life that he could almost regard it as a friend, if it wouldn't scare him so much.  


* * *

  
Pain. Everywhere. All around him. ... burning through his skin, through his mind until his very being is in flames ... cold metal sliding through his flesh … leather melting with sweat-slicked skin, the whistling of the whip the only sound heard.  
  
So far.  
  
He knows that it will first be over when he screams. It is always so. A battle of wills he's supposed to lose. But not yet. His hands clench around the chains keeping him down, and he bites his lips in the vein attempt to stop the moans from leaving his mouth and buries his head in the pillow below him. Satin. Luxurious, like most of the things surrounding him. Not at all like the person doing this to him. More like the person who, in a last desperate attempt not to be wiped out completely, took possession over him and used him like one would fill an empty vessel. Lord Voldemort. Only that this vessel wasn't empty to start with. Two strong minds caught in one body, fighting for dominance over it. At least in the beginning. Not anymore. The merging is complete. Two have become one. Even more beautiful, powerful, and terrible than before.  
  
He closes his eyes to shut out his surroundings, in the attempt to just forget. But it is useless. Even so he can hear the ragged breath cutting through the silence, his own panting accompanying it like in a piece of music. Even so he feels the air shifting around him as Harry positions himself to do whatever he has in mind now. Even so he can see the blood red that is the colour of the sheets below him. The same red like his former master's eyes, like the rivers of blood flooding down his body. If he manages to block out the pain, he can feel it welling up from the perfectly, almost artfully administered welts decorating his back. Slowly emerging out of the wounds, gathering on the surface and sliding down his sides. And if he keeps his eyes closed and goes a little bit deeper, he can make colours out of the pain. It is a discovery he made once, when he was caught somewhere between consciousness and obliteration, and one he has practiced until he could see it on command. It is much better and prettier than most other things that come into his mind during these moments, and it is something that helps him to stay sane. At least he likes to think that he hasn't lost his mind yet. And most of times he can even believe it.  
  
He presses his eyes tightly together; recalling the colours he has chosen - various shades for various implements the new Lord is so fond of using on him, and for various degrees of pain. Green for the sweet pain when the tip of the blade scratches the surface of his body and follows a pattern only the other man can see, various shades of blue when the whip (or whatever Harry fancies that day) merges with his flesh, yellow when the darkness doesn't want to be amused by preparing him but wants to take him hard and fast, when it wants to hear him scream, a vast variety of shades of violet when the Dark Mark on his arm is the focus of Harry's attention, and blazing red that spreads through his whole body when a wand is pressed against the base of his neck or, worse, against his spinal column, and a few whispered words send fire through his nerve centre and set his whole body aflame until he silently begs for death.  
  
But he won't die. Not yet. Not as long as the man who was once known as the Boy Who Lived still has a use for him. Most of times, Lucius doesn't know if he should be grateful for it or curse his fate.  
  
Sometimes he wishes for death. Especially in moments like this, when the darkness emerges fully. He bites his lips to stop the scream from leaving his mouth and being heard as the whip strikes one more time, even harder, and is replaced then with the unmistakable feeling of wood pressing against his spine. In the middle, nevertheless. It starts slowly, it always does. Just a faint stinging that slowly develops into a burning that seems to heat his blood. But before it becomes really uncomfortable, it stops. Alarmed, his eyes fly open. That is something new. And out of his own experiences, he knows that *new* rarely means anything good when dealing with people like Voldemort or, in this case, his unwilling almost-successor, Harry Potter.  
  
A hand buries itself in his hair and pulls his head up. His lips are drawn into a rough, bruising kiss.  
  
"Enjoying yourself?"  
  
Cruel amusement lets the green eyes gleam coldly. Nothing like the fire that had enlightened them all those years ago in the bookstore when they had met first, not even anything like when they had met on the battlefield, shortly before Harry had defeated Voldemort for a last time. It isn't a question that requires an answer. Though, it startles him that there are words spoken at all. Normally there is just silence between them. This is a new turn, one he doesn't like at all. If they don't speak, he can escape, can fly away in his thoughts and pretend he's somewhere else, doing something else, or even just concentrate on the colours and fly on the pain. Speaking makes things personal, demands interaction and forces an even more intimate closeness than they already have. Something he has no desire to have, maybe even can't. Lucius remains silent.  
  
"Just making sure that you're paying attention," he hears him saying, his melodic voice against his ear before he shifts and soft lips seek Lucius' own. Then Harry throws back his head and emits a cold, chilling laugh. Lucius shudders involuntarily. This isn't good, not at all.  
  
But even in moments like this, his silent pleas for death don't last long. He is a Malfoy and Malfoys do not beg, even less ask for death. They're simply not defeated, or if they are they don't talk about it. He smiles in the pillow that smoothers his cries and soaks his tears before they can be seen. He will survive and in the end he will be stronger than before.  
  
Only a few moments later this belief is put to a sever test. Harry has released his steel grip on his hair and plays now gently with the long strands. He has learned well, there is no doubt about that. Keeping the prisoner on his toes, never being predictable. Though, Lucius isn't quite sure if it is really knowledge or just instinct, or maybe it is another relic of Voldemort himself. It would fit only too well. Not that it would change the result. Lucius can't help himself but to relax ever so slightly under the gentle touch, to succumb to a game he as no other choice but to lose round after round anew.  
  
Hands are now roaming over his backside. Not rough, but so tenderly that Lucius, if he would close his eyes, could almost believe that it is true. But since living illusions and in fantasy worlds isn't what a Malfoy does, he perseveres his wariness and waits for the shift in Harry's behaviour that he simply know will come at some point.  
  
He can feel fingers tracing the welts on his back, followed by a warm, soft mouth and a tongue that takes the same way. From his neck, down his upper back until they reach his hips. And much as he hates it, he's caught in the moment, can't fight against the pleasure the other man awakes within him by his action. It is almost worse than the expected pain. He has come to learn to live with the pain, even managed to enjoy it - in parts. But this, this is so ... unknown, painful in its own right.  
  
Numbness spreads out within him by the unwelcome pleasure that doesn't allow him to escape or to do anything else but to experience and to enjoy every moment. Lucius is almost sure that there can't be a worse torture. Though, he has to admit that he's amazed at the inventiveness of the other wizard.  
  
Like a wanton slut, he moans and spreads his legs as a tongue strokes over the cleft separating his buttocks - and hates himself for it. This isn't the way things are supposed to be. He accepts but doesn't enjoy the degradation of each new day. Nothing too difficult up until today, but this ... To his utter horror he feels tears welling up in his eyes.  
  
 _No!_ , everything cries within him as Harry prepares him, carefully. This is not supposed to happen. Not yet. Not ever.  
  
"Oh yes, it is," he hears Harry's voice; smooth, self-confident, making him realize that he has spoken out aloud. He curses silently, closing his eyes tightly in the attempt to keep at least some of his dignity. In one swift motion Harry enters him.  
  
The breath is hot against his ear when he speaks again, "Give it to me. Give *them* to me. They are mine, like you. Can't you feel it?"  
  
Lucius hates Harry more than any time before as his hands seek (and find) a way between sheets and body and begin to manipulate his body in time to the thrusts, showing him just how much it belongs to him and the darkness that possesses Harry.  
  
He clenches his fists until his nails bite painfully in the flesh of his palms. "No." He barely recognizes the rough, low voice as his own. After the long time of not using and hearing it, it sounds strange to his ears. "Don't!"  
  
His instinctive reaction is meet by a chuckle. "So you can still speak. I had wondered about that." Another matter of fact statement. Nothing more, nothing less. Lucius bites the inside of his cheeks. He would not give the twisted figure that once was Harry Potter even more advantage over him. But even as he tells himself this, he feels himself slowly breaking further apart, allowing the other man inadvertently access to those parts of himself he has managed to keep locked and so out of reach until now.  
  
"Do you really think that you've any say in this?" Harry asks, laughing softly as if Lucius has made a highly amusing joke. "It is far too late for that. You *are* mine, and nothing can change that. We are what we are." The last seems to be accompanied by a wave of bitterness that radiates from his voice and for a short moment there is a certain closeness between them. Different from what else they have, more a kind of understanding. Though, he doubts that Harry is even aware of it.  


* * *

  
Shattered dreams, shattered life.  
  
 _"We are what we are."  
  
"More likely: what we have become."_  
  
The words resound in his ears as he soaks in the bath, in vain trying to get rid of what taints him now that the darkness has receded. God only knows how long it will last this time, before it will stir again.  
  
It has been a mistake to start the conversation. Though, it is amazing just how lucid the other man still seems, despite everything that has happened. But he should never have allowed it to go any further. Damn his curiosity! Everything was so nice, easy. Take him and use him, repay him for at least some of the pain he has caused Harry and so many other people. No sentiments, no regrets, no guilt.  
  
It worked. Mostly. At least, until now.  
  
To speak to him, to hear him talking, has reached something within Harry, something he thought had gone astray together with Voldemort. He wouldn't go so far as to name it 'compassion' or something like that, but there is something, something that has stirred a je ne sais pas within him and prompted him to take it a bit slower this time, to be gentle with the former Death Eater.  
  
But for the life of him he can't say what it is. And if he should be really truthful, he isn't even sure if he really wants to know it. The only thing he knows for sure is that it has been a mistake to start the conversation in the first place.  
  
A rather welcome knock on the door interrupts his line of thought.  
  
He wraps a towel loosely around his hips and leaves the steaming bathroom. "Yes." He doesn't care for his state of undress as he enters the living room. It is not as if anybody would dare to complain about what he does and what not. In one fluid motion, he kneels down in front of the fire and enlarges it with a mere thought. It is not that he feels the cold (or the warmth) anymore, thanks to the one who inherited him with his power, but it makes him feel more normal, more human. Another small anchor to reality for him, one of the things he's not willing to give up. Can't give up, for his own sake.  
  
He briefly wonders how Voldemort managed to deal with all this, but dispels the thought almost immediately. It is nothing he needs, or for that matter, really wants to know. His vague ideas and insights in the nature of the now unfortunately not completely dead dark lord are more than enough to send shivers down his spine, even more so when he thinks how much he's become like him already. Thinking about the man across the small corridor comes with an instant reaction. He can feel his cock stirring to life once more, straining against the soft towel that serves as an additional stimulation.  
  
Only with an immense effort of willpower, he wills his erection down again before he comes to his feet. Even without turning around he can feel the black eyes boring into his back, silently waiting for him to react to their owner's presence.  
  
"What is it, Severus? I thought I made it clear that I didn't want, under any circumstances, be disturbed today."  
  
"I know, Harry ... my Lord ..." Harry smiles inwardly. It is a humourless smile. Not even Severus, probably the closest he has to a friend nowadays, knows what to call him anymore. Some days, at least. Harry's guess is that at those days the darkness lurks even further on the surface than normally. Not a very comforting explanation, but the most likely one.  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
"Fudge is here. He wants to talk with you."  
  
Harry's eyes narrow. Fudge, coward of a wizard, removed from his duty as the Minister of Magic even before Voldemort was dead, and instead being entrusted now with the unappreciated job of being in the middle between the Ministry and co., and ... Harry, under the disguising name 'ambassador ' where 'boy for things everybody else is afraid to do' would be far better fitting. Harry can never quite shake of the desire to kill Fudge whenever he lays eyes on him. Would just be a fitting reward for him, after the role he played in Voldemort's rising. And Harry is in no mood to deal with him right now. Even less than normally already.  
  
"Tell him to come back later. I don't have the patience to deal with this incompetent fool now." The towel slides down his hips and, unconcerned about his now complete nudeness, he strides through the room and towards another door.  
  
"They sent a whole delegation. Fudge, Dumbledore, Black, and Weasley."  
  
Harry is aware but ignores the distaste with which Snape mentions his godfather. Their dislike for each other is one of the things that never change. If anything, it only got stronger with the end of the war and one of them blaming the other for not stopping Harry from delivering the final blow against Voldemort, even though they were both present. Not that they could have done anything, each trying to reflect curses, fighting Death Eaters off, and generally trying to stay alive in the madness of the final battle.  
  
"Which Weasley?"  
  
"Ron."  
  
Harry grows rigid. "What do they want?" he asks, very well knowing that they wouldn't bother with Ron if they didn't want something very important from him. They count on the friendship that they shared when they were still at Hogwarts, on the fact that it has somehow survived what happened. Fools! All of them. Especially Dumbledore. He of all people should know better.  
  
"They didn't tell me. They want to talk to you directly."  
  
Harry shakes his head. "You would think they have learned by now. Tell them, if they don't want to be hexed into the next millennium, they should tell you what they want and then take their leave again."  


* * *

  
"Breakfast for Master is ready, sir. Master can find it in his study."  
  
Harry nods. Not that this is something unusual, but for some reason he hasn't fathomed yet, the elf insists on this ritual every morning anew. "Thank you."  
  
Without paying any more attention to the tiny creature that uses the time to tidy the rest of the room, he sits down. He hasn't even finished preparing his tea, when Severus returns.  
"That didn't take long," he says, inviting the other wizard with a wave of his hand to sit down across from him. "Tea?" Not waiting for an answer, he pours the steaming liquid into a second cup. "What did they want?" he asks, adding two spoons of sugar and pushing the cup over the table.  
  
Severus' normally steady hands are shaking so much that he spills some of the tea onto the wood. He doesn't even seem to be aware of it. His shaking, Harry notices as he observes him, isn't for fear. Not that Snape has ever been really afraid of him. He has shown careful caution, it is his nature and something that has kept him alive in the past and will continue to do so now, but never fear. It was and is something Harry (and the darkness within him) can admire. But right now, there is not even a trace of the familiar caution in the black eyes, just some strange, unreadable emotions.  
  
And then he recognizes it for what it is:  
  
Graveness and grief.  
  
Without saying a word, Snape gives him a bunch of documents. For a moment the rustling of paper is the only sound heard as Harry skims over its contents.  
"Tell Dumbledore I'll pass it on," he says, grateful for the even tone in which he says it while he folds the parchment much more neatly than he had received it. But no matter his voice, he can't ignore a sudden coldness that comes over him and which battles now against the chilling darkness. He really doesn't look forward to it. No part of him does. Not even the darkness that feasts on the news.  
  
"My Lord," Severus says, his voice strangled, "would you mind if I would tell him about ... this?" Snape's normally composed presence is distinctive disturbed by the rough voice and by a look in his eyes that is at the border of becoming a spoken plea. For some reason this is quite dismaying. It is something that simply doesn't fit with the image Harry has of the other wizard.  
  
"If that is what you want ...," he says, his voice uncharacteristic wavering. He can't imagine why anybody would want to do such a thing willingly. It is strange.  
  
"I do!"  
  
Forcefully.  
  
Harry can sense pain in the other man and hears the relief in his voice. Not as sharp as the fear he can sometimes sense in other people (courtesy of his other self) when they have to deal with him, but just as clear.  
  
"Is there anything else?" he asks when Severus makes no move.  
  
"They still want you to release him into their custody. Now more than ever."  
  
A wave of anger wells up within Harry by this request. Sharp and demanding in its intensity. How dare they even think about something like that?  
  
"No!"  
  
His voice doesn't leave room for arguments. Still, for a moment it seems as if Severus wants to say something. But then he just nods, his lips tightly pressed together, and turns around.  
  
"Tell them he's safe," Harry calls after the other wizard, after a moment of thought.  
  
Even under his robes he can see Snape tensing. The hand on the door-handle clenches so hard around the metal, that knuckles turn white. Without turning around he asks, "Is he, my Lord? Really?"  


* * *

  
His body aches as he slowly and not quite willingly, but driven by an invisible force, leaves the wonderful, comfortable grey zone between sleep and painfully clear awareness. A low growl, barely audible, finds a way between parched lips as he struggles to turn around. His body feels as if every nerve is set ablaze. Probably close enough. Nausea accompanies the memories of the Cruciatus spreading through his body and pain taking over his whole being, agony dedicating every moment of his life. Not just a moment, but over and over again. Harry has indeed learned well from his master, - holding it until the victim is on the verge of passing out, but stopping right before sweet oblivion can reach it.  
  
For some unknown reason Harry's rage has been even stronger than normally lately. Lucius has no idea why, and as usual, Harry doesn't deem it necessary to enlighten him. He is a thing for the Dark Lord's pleasure, nothing more. But even he can tell (from first hand experience even) that, for some reason, Harry's mood has steadily gone downhill since the one fateful day (or has it been night? He really doesn't know anymore) when he has broken their unspoken agreement of mutual silence and has simply changed the rules.  
  
Only with an immense effort of willpower, Lucius can convince screaming muscles to move into a sitting position. Not because moving seems like a very pleasant thing to do, but because nature demands its due, and because he has to do something before going crazy, before thinking too much of the immense pain combined with the equally strong pleasure. A perverted combination intended to keep the victim on his toes and to drive him slowly crazy. More than once he has witnessed this torture. But nothing, not the screams of pain nor moans of pleasure could have prepared him for this. Torture at its finest and cruellest. And he could very well have done without the first hand experience.  
  
Addictive.  
  
That is the right description.  
  
His knees buckle and for a short moment the floor seems to come alarmingly close before he finally manages the impossible and stands, - with his hands seeking support at the bed post, but he stands, - upright. Quite an achievement if he considers his sore body and the nausea that has taken hold of him since he has woken up.  
  
He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, trying to clear his head from the clouds that have taken up residence there and make it hard to concentrate on one thing for too long - on something other than his pain, that is. He forces his thoughts to collect and to go in one direction, trying to grasp the last clear image he has.  
  
Alluring and Addictive.  
  
Just fleeting, but he manages to hold it.  
  
Just like the power the new Dark Lord radiates and probably the only reason the situation could happen in the first place. After all, it isn't as if there wasn't an opportunity to escape. From the clashing and then merging of the two powers and wills, and the following confusion, until it was too late and he found himself again in this very unMalfoy like position, he *couldn't* stand up against Harry. Not after their first, very foolish attack. Not even when his comrade in arms had died a spectacular and gruesome death by the hand of somebody who didn't know yet what he was capable of, but willing to do anything to get what he wanted. Then, even more than now he could sense Voldemort's power and it has kept him enthralled, like in the past.  
  
It is a dangerous thing with power; it attracts people like moths to the flame, not caring that they have a fair chance to meet the same end like said moths. No matter on which side you stand, it is never safe. Not in the past and not now. Not for him, but neither for Severus, even less for the fool Dumbledore. It might seem to him that he has everything under control, but in truth, nobody does. Not even Harry. And Harry knows it. Not that he likes it, but he's very well aware of it. One of the reasons he tries so hard to be in control, to live a normal life. A fruitless attempt, of course.  
  
That is also one of the reasons that Lucius is still alive. He is very well aware of the special place he has the doubtful pleasure to hold. But it is probably better than the alternatives. At least he is still alive and sane. And, even more important - himself. He doubts he would be able to hold on to this feeble connection to his self if Harry gives in Fudge's demand and hands him over, so that he can get his justified punishment. In his case probably death, if he was very lucky, or forgotten behind the thick walls of Azkaban surrounded by Dementors who would do their utter best to destroy what is left of him, or the Dementor's kiss if those deciding over his fate would have a really bad day. If they saw him, it would probably be the later.  
  
It is a possible fate that scares him to no end. The possibility of surviving without living is just too horrible to think about. Death doesn't scare him. Not anymore. Not that he has a chance to inspect the possibility closer. Not as long as he still fulfils his duty, and certainly not with Harry monitoring his every move.  
  
For the moment he's grateful for the pain running through his body as he opens his eyes again, it is a sign that he is still very much alive and can feel.  
  
The way to the bathroom seems even longer than normally. Carefully, he releases his hold on the wonderful solid bedpost and starts to set one foot in front of the other, trying not to think too much about the simple task or his shaking body.  
  
The lack of control is one of the things where Harry and Voldemort differ. Voldemort liked what he was. He had a chance to prepare himself, to learn to wield the power. Not so Harry. Somehow he doubts that this situation is what Dumbledore had in mind when he set his child-soldier on Voldemort's track. Probably not. But maybe yes. Who can be sure about it. Dumbledore, even though most people turn a blind eye on it, is not less ambitious than Voldemort was. He just has the better justification by working for the light.  
  
Lucius shakes his head. That is something that will never change. People working for the light will always have more leverage, even more so when their name is Dumbledore. And Dumbledore always uses every mean to reach his goal - no matter what the cost. A grim smile spreads over his lips. The perfect Slytherin, indeed.  
  
From the few times he was present when Fudge, Weasley or Dumbledore have been here, and from the way they approached Harry and dealt with him, he can tell that they fear him and what he has become. It is one of the reasons that they let him have his way whenever possible. They're trying to keep him happy. That, and pity. It is the only thing the light still feels for its fallen hero. Most of all fear, for Harry has become that what they dread most.  
  
The merging of his own and Lord Voldemort's power made him all but invincible. There is nothing that can stop him now, short of killing him - if at all. Voldemort was more or less immortal after all. And they are not so desperate yet that they will try this. It is the last bit of respect and honour for a dying legend. But how long will it continue to keep Harry safe before they decide that he isn't worth the trouble and that they will be safer if he is dead, Lucius doesn't dare to speculate. That again will be followed by his own death. He has no illusions about that. With Harry out of the way, they won't have reason to keep him alive any longer.  
  
Strangely composed at the thought, he opens the door and enters the bathroom that, like almost everything around him, speaks of money and extravagance. Voldemort's influence, he has no doubt about that. In a different situation, he would probably have applauded the decorator. Now he can only offer a dry laugh by the irony of the whole situation. Though, all the changes do improve the look of the castle. Since Harry has taken residence here, it has become much more appealing than anytime before - as far as Lucius can recall. He just would have loved to see Dumbledore's face when he visited Hogwarts the first time after Harry came into full power. It would have been something to cherish in moments like this.  
  
The hot water of the shower does wonders to his far too stiff muscles and he takes his time, dwelling in the luxury to just stand there and feel and enjoy.  
  
Once finished, he steps out, dries himself, and combs his hair. Not that he still cares that much about it, but he knows how Harry feels about such things, and he has no intention to stir the darkness even more by disobeying in something ridiculous like this.  
  
There is no mirror anymore, but he manages it without it. Actually there hasn't been one anymore since he has smashed the huge, tiled one with the golden ornaments. It was a rather nice one, one he would have tolerated in his own home as well, but it fell victim to an outbreak which was much closer to a panic attack than he would ever admit, when he has woken up here first. And it has never been replaced since then. Lucius can't say that he is sad about it. On the contrary. He would be quite happy if all mirrors in the castle would befall a similar fate. Then at least he wouldn't need to see anymore what has become of him, and take in the permanent marks, like the tattoo or the piercing that decorates his cock, or the temporary signs of ownership. And, even more important, the pain and tears in his eyes. He shudders slightly. Fortunately, Harry doesn't seem too fond of them either, so he only stumbles over one very sporadically.  
  
When he leaves the bathroom, he finds Severus sitting in the armchair near the fireplace. "The elves brought you breakfast," he says, pointing to various plates that cover half of the table and a pot with steaming tea. Stating the obvious is so very unlike him, that it lets all alarm bells within Lucius ring. The bleak gaze that holds some unreadable emotions doesn't help to ease the feeling.  
  
Warily, he comes to hold in the doorframe, shivering. Not because he feels cold, but because of the situation. It isn't the first time that he sees Severus, or that the other wizard sees him in such a state - on the contrary, Lucius seriously doubts that he would have survived this long without the various potions the other man has prepared for him since his arrival here - but it is the first time that they are alone, without Harry anywhere near. Unaware, the fingers of his left hand clutch at the doorframe. Severus sighs. "Sit down and eat something."  
  
He shakes his head. "What ... are you doing here?" Husky and cracking, like a voice that hasn't been used often in a long time. Which is true enough. Not to speak anyway.  
  
Instead of an answer, Severus stands up and crosses the short distance between them. Several steps away from him, he stops. Lucius doesn't know if it is an act out of consideration, to give him some space, or maybe so that he can avoid a closer contact, but he's grateful for it.  
  
Severus holds out his hand, offering him a slightly crumpled parchment. "I'm sorry, Lucius."  
  
Not breaking their eye contact, he takes the paper. Lucius feels a wave of dread as he sees the broken Ministry of Magic seal on the surface. He just knows that it can't be anything good. Has Fudge and co. finally succeeded and will get their hands on him? Not exactly a very pleasant prospect ...  
  
The parchment is much too fast unrolled for Lucius' taste. The inside is filled with narrow but neat handwriting and Lucius has no problems to decipher the short text.  
  
  
 _Dear Mr. Potter,  
  
Since Lucius Malfoy is in your custody, we see it as our sad duty to inform you, that Draco Malfoy, son of said Lucius Malfoy, died yesterday morning after a misfortunate accident in Azkaban Fortress.  
  
See enclosed report for more details.  
  
Salutations,  
  
Arthur Weasley  
(Minister of the Ministry for Magic)  
  
Cuthbert Mockridge  
(Minister for the custody of political convicts)_  
  
  
For a moment - nothing. The words don't hold any meaning but are just a series of letters.  
  
Total blankness. Very gradually, the merciful blanket of lack of understanding is lifted. And, again, piece by piece, letter by letter, word for word, the written begins to make sense.  
  
Misfortunate accident ...  
  
His son.  
  
Draco.  
  
His chest tightens painfully. Fingernails bury into the wood of the doorframe, the pain the only thing keeping him in the here and now. But he can feel how part of him shatters, breaks, without hope to be fixed. How part of him simply vanishes. It is as if a line, the only thing that has kept him alive and sane, has simply been cut.  
  
"How ..." His voice trails off before it can really break.  
  
Disbelief.  
  
Denial.  
  
Then ...  
  
... sorrow, pain. A world full of it and then even more. Oppressing, trying to swallow him whole. Madness lurking at the edges of his consciousness, waiting for the last bit of careful balance to shift in its favour so that it can lay claim on what rightly belongs to it already.  
  
And so much pain.  
  
"An over-enthusiastically Dementor."  
  
He hears the words being echoed, not quite aware that it is he who repeats them. The hand with the note clenches into a fist, crumbling the paper. Like from far away he hears Severus' voice, talking to him, explaining what happened.  
  
"... another hearing ... new proofs, Draco probably would have got free ... guards didn't pay attention ..."  
  
Misfortunate accident.  
  
Died.  
  
Draco.  
  
His knees give away and he feels himself sliding towards the floor.  
  
So cold.  
  
Severus is at his side instantly, wrapping arms around his body to prevent a hard collision with the ground. He finds himself in a surprisingly gently embrace while words without any meaning are spoken. He closes his eyes, shielding himself from the obvious pity in the other man's eyes. He couldn't care less. There was a time he would have given anything to feel this closeness again, to know that the other man cared again, but that was long ago, - before his life has been ripped away from him, piece after piece until nothing worthwhile living for was left anymore, before he ended as ... here, before his wife has been killed, and his own heir, pride of his life, murdered.  
  
His chest and throat constrict, make breathing almost impossible, and then something pushes its way through those barriers, forcefully, not caring for anything but its freedom.  
  
A loud cry breaks through the unnatural silence that has laid itself over him and keeps him captive, isolated. An impossible loud sound filled with just a fraction of the pain and rage that threatens to tear him apart. And then the world slides away and he sinks into darkness with no intention or desire to ever emerge again.  


* * *

 _"How is he?" he asks, fighting a lost battle with the hairbrush against his hair.  
  
"Physically he'll be fine, just a few bruises, nothing serious, but his mind ... I really don't know if he'll ever recover from that."  
  
There is an alien glare in Snape's eyes. Something Harry can't quite place. The image of how he has found them turns unbidden up in his mind. Severus' arms protectively wrapped around Lucius whose intense grey eyes were void of any expression or emotion, frightening so. Then he understands. "You're worried about him." When the other wizard doesn't answer, he continues, "Why are you concerned for a Death Eater?"  
  
Severus closes his eyes, though, if in the attempt to collect his thoughts, or to recall something, or even in the attempt to forget, Harry doesn't know. But his curiosity is roused, and it wants to be feed. "What does he mean to you, Severus?" he inquires._  
  
Not paying any attention to the house-elf that hurries around, to clear the ground of pieces of glass, he crosses the threshold and steps out into the corridor. The burning torches dip the short way in a warm light.  
  
He lets the week old talk in which he found out more about his former professor than he ever wanted to know, once again pass in review as he stops in front of a middle aged wizard who stands beside the door to his ... Lucius' rooms. One of Voldemort's former prisoners and prior to that one of his followers, who was so grateful when Harry freed him that he vowed immediately loyalty to the new Dark Lord. Like so many others.  
  
"My Lord," he bows his head lightly. "Nothing unusual happened. The last time I checked he wasn't awake yet."  
  
Harry accepts the information with a nod. "You may go. I'll take over now," he dismisses the other wizard whom he has appointed guard to make sure that his prize will be safe, even in his absence, - from Lucius himself just in case the Malfoyish survival instinct would cease to work one day, but mostly from other people. He knows that there are people, fools to be precise, who aren't quite happy with the situation and who would go any length to change it. He has no illusions about that.  
  
He swallows his anger at this thought before it can fully blossom and opens the door. His skin tingles as the protection spells he has put around the rooms read his signature before letting him pass. A necessary precaution to ensure that none of said fools can take their dissatisfaction out on his pet. Lucius is *his* and if somebody will hurt him, it will be Harry, and nobody else. If somebody else should go against Lucius, the person's survival chance will go down to zero. It is as easy as that.  
  
The fire and the torches that are positioned around the bed let the pale, almost white skin gleam and give the blond hair that only a few hours ago, prior to a cleaning spell, has been matted by blood and sweat, a golden glimmer.  
  
Lovers! Not only that, but long-time lovers! At least, if he should believe Severus, until he left Voldemort's circle. And it is obvious that Snape still cares for him, a great deal even, even if Harry can't quite understand *why*.  
  
With an absent shake of his head, he takes the five stairs up to the platform, and looks thoughtfully down at the still form, taking in every inch of the nude body sprawled out on the bed.  
  
Beautiful, no question about that. Beautiful, arrogant, and deadly. But that couldn't be it. There was something about him that got to people, and rarely in a good way, as Harry can only attest.  
  
How could somebody like Snape care so deeply for somebody who was a Death Eater (and would probably still be one if the odds hadn't been against him) and tormented and killed countless people and probably enjoyed it as well. Definitely something worth pondering.  
  
 _Even through the many layers of robes, he can see the tension in the other man's body as he turns around and crosses the room to reach the door.  
  
"And what do you want me to do?"  
  
Severus stops in mid-motion and turns around again. "Release him. He has suffered more than enough." He laughs. It isn't a pleasant sound. In the mirror he can see Snape flinching, but the older wizard stands his ground. "He has just lost his son. Not to mention everything else since the end of the war."  
  
Harry stops combing his hair and turns around to face the other wizard for the first time since they have arrived in his chambers. "And what about everything he is responsible for? All the death, all the fear and pain others had to endure at his hand?" Before Snape has a chance to answer, he continues, "Besides, I need him. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't release him."  
  
"That is what you want to believe."  
  
For a short moment, Harry is stunned. Truly and utterly, unable to form words or even to do anything else. Then, without thinking twice about it, he draws his wand and points it at the other man. "How dare you?" And for a short moment he's really tempted to do it, to curse the only person he can trust and considers a friend into oblivion. With some effort and a shake of his head, he puts away the wand and turns his attention again towards his reflection and the hairbrush.  
  
"Did I give the impression that I enjoy it? Any of this? Don't you think I'd rather be somewhere else? Doing something else? Be somebody else?" he asks, deliberately calm and low. Then, in a sudden fit, he takes the hairbrush and throws it so hard against the mirror that it shatters.  
  
Severus crosses the room. "Let me help you," he says, takes the hairbrush and stirs him towards a chair. Harry feels all at sudden very young again as he sits down. Not like somebody who had the unfortunate luck to be a celebrity even before he could speak, even less before he knew it, and certainly not like a person who has killed and whose mind and body isn't quite his own anymore.  
  
He closes his eyes as Severus goes to work, trusting him implicitly not to do something stupid. The sure strokes of the hairbrush allow him to drift away to a life he had one, or more, worlds ago, where he knew nothing about the darkness or the rage that has become part of him and makes him a monster.  
  
"I don't want to hurt more people. Not even him," he suddenly whispers. There is a tone of pained resignation in his voice.  
  
"I'm sure there is another way, Harry," Snape says, calmly. He doesn't stop brushing, something Harry is very grateful for. He doubts he could have this conversation while facing the other man.  
  
"And what if I release him and there isn't?" The fear in his voice is thick, tangible. He doesn't hate it though. It feels good, if only for once, to let go. It allows him to feel human. He can't remember when he has last felt this way.  
  
"There must be and we can find it," Severus says simple. And for a short moment, Harry dares to believe that there is still a chance, that he isn't completely lost yet.  
  
For a short moment no other words are spoken, doubtlessly because both of them are lost in their own thoughts. Then, so unexpected that Harry almost jumps, "That is better." One last stroke and Snape lays the hairbrush aside on the table. Harry watches it regretfully, feeling the vulnerability already vanish.  
  
"And if you ... we ... don't find another way," he says, his voice getting colder again, as he comes to his feet and turns around to face the other wizard, "are you willing to take his place?"  
  
There is curiosity and something else in the black gaze. "If there's no other way, yes."  
  
"He really must have meant much to you if you offer yourself after you’ve seen what I'm capable of."  
  
"He did, my Lord."  
  
The formal addressing shows that the special moment has passed for good. Harry nods. "But even if it would come to this, I can't simply let him go. You know that."  
  
"That is not what I expect. I even doubt that it is what he wants or could."  
  
Harry nods. "You should return. I'm sure our guests are getting nervous by now and wonder if you're still alive." There is a tight, unpleasant smile on his lips.  
  
"And what shall I tell them?"  
  
"My answer is still the same. Tell Dumbledore that he won't get him. And that he, if he values his own life, should stop bothering me with this nonsense."_  
  
It was his final word, like so often before already. Harry doesn't have illusions that it is the last time either. The Ministry's obsession with Lucius is more than obvious and he knows that they will do much to get their hands on him. Severus is right, now that he is the last in his line, even more than before. The name Malfoy has something to it that provokes the most extreme reactions from people. But, naturally, they don't understand just why Harry is so keen of keeping Lucius at his side and alive. Not that he'd tell them. It is his business alone and nobody else's, least of all of the Ministry.  
  
He feels a sting of guilt as he kneels down beside the bed and the unconscious form on it, well knowing that he is the one responsible for his current state.  
  
 _... and the incompetence of the Ministry, those in charge of Azkaban and the Dementors_ , he reminds himself.  
  
In just a few moments of carelessness, they have managed what he has tried to avoid so hard for the past two years: the breaking of one Lucius Malfoy.  
Harry feels waves of darkness rolling through him, the same, which are responsible for the current state of the other man.  
  
 _... Lucius' vacant expression, his refusal to react in any way to his presence, his simply accepting of whatever was inflicted on him until it was threatening to drive Harry crazy. It was never supposed to be this way. It was *wrong*. If somebody had the right to break Lucius, he did and nobody else. And, despite everything, he had done his utter best during the past years so that it wouldn't happen!  
  
Anger welled up within Harry by the situation and the thought of those who were responsible for it. And it demanded to be feed. He couldn't help himself anymore and simply had to find a way to get a reaction. But when tears and muffled cries showed him that he had succeeded, it was too late already. By then he had already gone too far and couldn't turn back anymore ...  
  
The next thing he was aware of was the bloody mess that once had been a back and the utter stillness of the body below him. For a moment unimaginable fear took hold of him and he was almost sure that he had gone too far this time, that Lucius was dead. The rush of emotions was like an awakening. It was something he hadn't felt in a long time.  
  
Unfortunately, it didn't last very long. Along with the blood that he washed away from the pale skin, it thinned. And as soon as he knew with certainty that Lucius was indeed still alive, that he merely found escape in unconsciousness, it vanished entirely. Like the wounds on the other man's body closed with a few spoken words, the fear and the vividness he had felt for a short moment closed and imprisoned these feelings again. Far out of his reach, leaving nothing more but a faint, bitter memory of something long past, spiced with the vague taste of something that could have been guilt._  
  
But however short the upwelling of those emotions was, it brought him to the current point and forced him to make some decisions.  
  
Harry shakes his head and lets his hand wander over Lucius' back, absently but gentle. He doesn't want to think about it now. He still has some time left, and there are other, more important matters to attend to before. Not for long anymore ...  
  
Lucius is his and as that every act against him is one against Harry, and since you don't simply go against the Dark Lord without paying for it, somebody would pay today. It was almost time for Lucius' revenge, which, to some extend at least, was also repayment, Harry admits. But mostly revenge, of course. He would certainly enjoy it.  
  
He bows forward and presses a kiss on the blond hair. Thanks to his cleaning spell, it isn't fouled with blood anymore, but has returned to its normal softness. He deeply inhales the fresh scent that reminds him of spring, before he moves forward a bit. "Time to wake up, Lucius," he murmurs in his ear. "We have a lot to do today."  
  
He has barely finished the sentence, when grey eyes open and lock with his. For a moment the gaze is unreadable, then, when awareness sets in, Lucius flinches. Harry can't blame him, not after everything he has suffered at Harry's hands just a few hours ago. Still, there's a part of him, that can't accept such a rejection. Most of him, actually. It makes him angry, though if with himself or Lucius, he really can't say. Instead of pondering this, he tightens his hold on Lucius, bows down, and kisses him. Not exactly gentle, but not overly rough either, a reminder of who is in charge here. He first releases him, when he feels Lucius responding, - as always, no matter if Lucius wants it or not, if he's really with him or if he's withdrawn.  
  
He knows exactly what he has or can do to coax a response out of the older wizard. It was one of the nicer things he did during his first months as the new Dark Lord and he didn't stop until Lucius' body was as familiar to him as was his own, until he knew exactly how to drive him crazy, where he was most sensitive, what he liked and what not. It was a time well spent and proved very useful in the months that followed.  
  
But as pleasant as it is to think about the past, there are other things to do now. Harry ignores the haunted gaze, and comes to his feet. With long steps, he crosses the room and stands in front of the heavy wardrobe. He opens it and rummages around, searching for something Lucius can wear, clothes that would warm him while to the same time leaving no doubt about his position.  
  
"Come here, Pet." Lucius reacts instantly. Without hesitation, he gets up, crosses the room, and kneels down in front of him. It is such a normal scene, such a routine, that Harry can almost pretend that nothing has changed, that they can go on like they have during the past two years. Unfortunately, that isn't the case, and since he's grown out of having and, worse, living in illusions, he doesn't ponder it further. Instead he takes the cloth he has chosen, a dark blue cloak, lays it around Lucius' shoulders, and, ignoring yet another flinch, closes it at the throat with a pin. "We don't want you to get ill, after all," he says, cutting through the oppressing silence. It is not to talk, but to break the silence between them. Not that Lucius has ever talked much during their time together, but this here is different, worse. It is not a subtle sign of obstinacy or rebellion that can be broken, but something newer, if much deeper rooted, something final.  
  
He fetches the hairbrush out of the bathroom and returns to Lucius' side. Casually, he lets it glide through the long blond hair. "Get up," he says, once Lucius is finished and looks presentable. Not just presentable, but delicious, he corrects himself. His cock obviously agrees with him and stirs to life. "We're going for a walk."  
  
In the past, even after Lucius ceased to speak, these words would have brought out at least a questioning look. Not so now. This time, there is nothing. Less than that if it is possible. It is deeply unsettling.  
  
"Come with me." And even without looking back, he knows that Lucius will do just that. There is no, and never has been, a need for a leash or similar implements. In the beginning, when Lucius wasn't so cooperative, there were other ways to show him how fruitless his resistance was, and if that didn't help, there was always the Imperius. But that is long past.  
  
"My Lord." He nods absently, passes the wizard who guards the Apparation chamber, disables the wards protecting the room, and opens the door. He enters, wand drawn, just because a healthy dose of paranoia never does any harm, especially not in his position.  
  
When he can be sure that they're indeed alone, he pulls Lucius close against his own body and murmurs the spell. The air around them shifts as he apparates them out of Hogwarts, - and straight into the heart of Azkaban.  
  


* * *

  
Dazed, he looks around, forcing himself to really *see* instead of only taking in and accepting. He needs a moment to realize where his master, where Harry, has brought them.  
  
Then -  
  
\- cold showers accompanied by unimaginable fear. He knows the thick walls surrounding them only too well. Four weeks of his entire life he has spent here, four weeks that make his current life appear like a luxurious vacation. And even now he can still hear the cries that have tormented him all those years ago. He never knew if they were real, a game of his imagination, or if they were the screams of long dead prisoners, which the walls had absorbed and which served now to torment the current inhabitants. Not that it mattered. Only the result was important in the end, and it was very effective.  
  
He can't suppress a shudder at these memories. After the first three days, he had been ready to go up the walls, after the first week, deeply afraid for his sanity, and when he was released a month later, almost sure that he was insane. The screams, no matter if imaginary or real, were almost worse than the Dementors - almost.  
  
"...stay with me!" he hears like from far away, and while something in the voice urges him to listen and to obey, another, even more persistent part, wants him to return to the place that promises sweet nothingness.  
  
But he can't go in either direction. He's caught in the moment, hunted by pleas and cries of past ghosts. At least until a hand connects with his face, hard, forcing him to return to the present. His cheek burns and his eyes sting by the force of the slap as a hand winds in his hair and forces him to meet insisting green eyes. And it is that unreadable gaze that brings him back completely. It is like an awakening when he, for the first time since ... since that day, is really aware of his surroundings again. It is not to compare with his déjà vu only moments ago, but something much different, a real awakening. And he doesn't like it, not at all. For with the awakening, the memories of the most recent events and the pain returns - full force. And all he wants to do is to escape before it can eat him alive. He just wants to forget. Everything.  
  
And suddenly his fear is not only about past ghosts or about his vivid imagination anymore, but about something much more real. Like one of these annoying muggle neon commercials, it blinks in his head. Bright pink, and on and off, relentlessly. Even without doing anything, he feels his panic reaching a new level. It is naked fear for his life, fear that –  
  
"Stop it, Lucius!" Forcefully, emphasized by a sharp tug in his hair that makes him wince. He can't suppress a shiver. Suddenly there are arms around him, pressing him even closer against the Dark Lord's body, and for a short moment he can ignore the tremors that wreck him, if not forget his pain and his fears. It helps that the green eyes are not clouded by darkness, even though Lucius knows very well how fast that can change.  
  
"What is it?" Harry asks, his voice tingling with a hint of impatience, which, if provoked, can turn into something highly undesirable. Still, Lucius can't speak, can't voice what he feels and fears, and in the end it isn't important for Harry knows him better than anybody else and words are unnecessary. Suddenly there are lips on his face and hands roam over his body under the coat, familiar and soothingly if strangely gently. "You are *mine*, Pet, and I certainly won't leave you to them, or to the Dementors. If somebody will hurt you, it is I. They touch you, and they are dead!"  
  
The door opens and Severus enters. He looks worried. Instead of a greeting, Harry just asks, "Is everything prepared?"  
  
"Of course it is, my Lord." Severus smoothes his robe on the front, freeing it from some invisible crease. A sign of extreme unease, as Lucius knows too well. Very rarely seen and as that very telling.  
  
Harry nods, not yet releasing his hold on Lucius. "Any problems?"  
  
"Several. They are not happy about the recent developments. Dumbledore --" before he can finish the sentence, the door opens and four wizards enter the room. An elderly wizard whose name Lucius doesn't know, Dumbledore, and Weasley and son.  
  
"What is the meaning of this? Who do you think you are, just walking in here, asking such a ... such ..."  
  
Harry smiles. Not a normal smile, but the hard and cold one he reserves for very special occasions. It is a smile that promises pain. "Who do you think you're talking to, Mockridge? Have you forgotten who I am? I think a minimum of respect, a sign of general courtesy would be in order, wouldn't it?"  
  
The name rings a bell. Lucius thinks he has heard it somewhere, but when it won't come to him, he gives up and focuses his attention to what is happening around him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the elderly wizard blanching but not moving. Harry's arms around Lucius' body tighten very slightly and Lucius isn't surprised when the offender doubles over in pain and goes to the ground, whimpering pathetically. Wandless magic. Not at all a problem for a wizard with Harry's power. Admirable, but also disconcerting, especially if it is turned against him. But in this situation it almost a blessing when Lucius finally makes the connection between the wizard and his name. Cuthbert Mockridge, Minister for the custody of political convicts, and the one who signed the letter informing about Draco's death. And for the first time in almost two years, Lucius really and deeply regrets that he's crippled, unable to use magic. He's paralysed by pain, consuming despair and burning rage. He feels much more helpless and lost than any time before. In fact, the only thing anchoring him and holding him upright and sane, are the arms around his body.  
  
His master's hold suddenly strengthens as if Harry knows exactly what he's thinking, which could very well be. The warning gaze is also the only thing that keeps him from using the next best thing to magic - physically force. The muffled cries of the wizard on the ground are only a very small comfort and certainly not enough repayment for the futility of his son's death.  
  
Lucius closes his eyes as the despair threatens to overwhelm him and his eyes begin to sting. He will not sink so low to let them see him crying. It is the only dignity he still has and he will hold onto it. "Soon, my Pet," so soft, and so strangely soothing, he isn't even sure he's really heard it or if it is maybe just wishful thinking.  
  
"I don't ask, I demand. I do and get what I want when I want it. If I ask you to get me something or to do something for me, you should feel honoured and thank me instead of complaining. Especially if you have plans to continue your easy and peaceful existence under my rule. Each of you!" Harry doesn't raise his voice, he rarely does, instead his voice becomes so very low that it cuts into one's flesh and soul. Lucius knows that voice. He also knows, what a dangerous venture it is to continue speaking against his master when he is in such a mood. Only fools, those tired of life, and those who didn't have the doubtful pleasure yet to meet the Dark Lord personally would continue.  
  
Even without watching the scene, Lucius can feel the eyes of the young Weasley boy on him, scrutinizing him - them - in disgust, before he turns his attention to the one he called his best friend once. "He was one of  _them_! Why would you want something like that?" Ron blurts out.  
  
"You can't do that, Harry." Arthur Weasley, rushing his son to help. Bitterness wells up within Lucius by that concept. He forces himself to ignore it. Do they really believe they can stop Harry or defeat the combined power of two powerful wizards? If yes, they were even greater fools than Lucius gave them credit for. He opens his eyes to take in the picture in front of him. No, they wouldn't stand a chance, not even with Dumbledore in their middle.  
  
"It wouldn't have been necessary, if your people would do what they're paid for." And even softer. Lucius can't stop the tremble that runs through him. But unlike him, Weasley either doesn't know when he's in danger, or he thinks it is worth to take the risk. Maybe he thinks that he can still save Harry, that his old friend is still in there somewhere and just needs to be reminded of what once was.  
  
Ignorant fool.  
  
"Accidents happen, Harry. This is not your responsibility. We will take care of it."  
  
"And there you're wrong. It is as much my responsibility as the rest, if not even more so." The kiss is too fast as that he can react in any way apart from simply accepting it. His body reacts immediately by the rough contact. He can't suppress a moan, and his cock stirs to life. He is sure that their audience feels much more uncomfortable than he does. Being on display and a show-off is something one gets very easily used to if there is no other possibility. And indeed, their dismay is clear in their faces, obvious to everybody.  
  
"For  _him_?" Ron again, only this time his voice is thick with disbelief. "Have you entirely lost your mind? Have you forgotten that he..."  
  
Lucius turns him and everything else around him out. He feels tired and just wants to go home to sleep and to find peace, to forget. He wonders briefly just when he has come to think about Hogwarts as home, and how easy it is to accept something like that, no matter how strange the situation, before he allows himself to drift. Not to linger in the past, it is much too painful, but just so.  
  
A piercing scream brings him back almost immediately. Ron is lying on the ground, writhing on the aftermath of whatever curse has been inflicted on him. Arthur and Albus are kneeling beside him, checking him up, or maybe just to prevent that he can cause himself even more damage. Ron's face is tear-stained when he stands up again, leaning heavily on his father for balance. Pain and betrayal shines in his eyes. Dumbledore watches them with an ashen-face and with something akin to regret, when he comes heavily to his feet again. Lucius doesn't think he's ever looked older. For a short moment he feel something like pity for the old wizard. How must he feel seeing that his creation has not only turned against him but has become an uncontrollable monster? Knowing, that he can't stop what once was the golden boy, his tool? Living with the knowledge that he is the one who, ultimately, is responsible for the current situation?  
  
"How did you say so fittingly? Accidents happen?" This time Arthur pales visibly. The last minutes were a lesson well learned, it seems. "If you don't want a similar accident to happen to your son, I advise you to keep him as far away as possible from me instead of using him as a tool to get to me. It won't work. I won't hesitate to kill him if he as much as looks the wrong way at me or what belongs to me." There's no trace of Harry anymore. Just the Dark Lord. Raw, pure power. Stronger than Grindelwald and Voldemort ever were. Not even Dumbledore can measure with that. Lucius knows it. Power draws people to its source, and he has been drawn to Harry like the moth to the flame.  
  
"Expelliarmus!" Snape, who so far has stood silently beside them, face blank and arms crossed over his chest, holds two wands in his hand while Mockridge looks rather dazed at them from where the spell has thrown him against the wall.  
  
"Thank you, Severus." The loss when Harry finally releases his hold on him to take the wand from Snape is immense. Suddenly, he fears he'll fly away without his master to ground him. That he associates Harry not only with pain and fear, but also with safety, doesn't really worry him anymore. It is just another step in his seemingly never-ending descent. As if sensing his discomfort, Severus steps closer to him. Not touching him, just being there, offering comfort with his closeness. It helps, a bit.  
  
Harry doesn't pay any attention to them, as he observes the offender. Cruelty and rage are playing an interesting, if frightening game in the Dark Lord's eyes. Lucius feels almost pity as Mockridge finally realizes what a mistake he has made and starts to tremble violently. "That is not what I meant when I talked about respect," Harry says. "But since I don't think further lessons will improve your behaviour, let me show you just why you should have shown me some common courtesy."  
  
The air around them suddenly charges with magic.  
  
"Stupefy!"  
  
Dumbledore. Lucius almost laughs by the feeble and foolish attempt to stop Harry. It doesn't work. Of course not. Without turning around, Harry shields himself and turns the spell against Dumbledore himself, who, with a loud thud, lands onto the ground. Harry turns his attention away from Mockridge who utters a very pathetic sigh of relief and towards Dumbledore.  
  
"If you ever try something like that again, you will die." Bitterness and anger ooze from Harry's voice when he addresses his old mentor. Lucius can't blame him. He rather admires his self-discipline. Worth of a Malfoy. Though, he isn't sure if he could have shown the same in Harry's place. Probably not. This is one of the men, after all, who is responsible for him being who he is today.  
  
"Severus will contact you next week to talk about his replacement," he says to Weasley, pointing with his wand at Mockridge who still cowers on the ground and whose relief proves to be very short lived as he suddenly bursts into flames. Lucius is almost sure that he neither had time to realize what was happening to him nor felt any pain. It was mainly a killing for the effect. And it obviously worked, for when Harry focuses he attention at Weasley and asks, "I trust I can count on your cooperation, Arthur?" the Minister just nods.  
  
"And now enough of this waste. Severus?"  
  
"Just follow me, my Lord."  
  
Only a few steps after they left the room and stepped into a cold, gloomy corridor, Lucius can feel his anxiety returning - phantom cries mingling with the knowledge of what Draco had to endure here, and memories of his own stay behind these walls. He has to force himself not to just stop and flee. Not that it would do him any good. Defying Harry would probably be a very bad idea today. Besides, he isn't even sure if he still has the strength to do so. This institution, no matter if Dementors are close or not, draws on his hidden energy resources it seems.  
  
So he forces himself to go on. Step after step, each one a new challenge, until they come to hold in front of a heavy wooden door. It is not very reassuring and when Severus opens the door and lets them pass, Lucius almost expects to be grabbed by a Dementor and seeing its malformed face nearing to give him the final kiss.  
  
He shudders.  
  
Then he sees it, standing across from them in the spacious room, its darkness drawing on the light around it until even the light walls seem to become dull.  
  
A barely visible movement from it lets Lucius jump backwards in panic, - into the very solid body of Snape. He is so far gone that not even the hand on his shoulder can reach through the veil of horror that weaved itself around him. Once again, it is pain that brings him back - a sharp tug on his testicles that makes him gasp and lets tears spring to his eyes as he listens to Harry, or rather to Harry's voice that brings him slowly back to the present and anchors him.  
  
"... for you," are the first words his confused mind can actually grasp the meaning of. Though, for a moment he isn't too sure about it since they don't make any sense. Warily, he looks at Harry.  
  
"I have a present for you," he just says, a sardonic smile playing around his lips as he points ahead of them towards the other two individuals in the room - the Dementor and the other one a wizard in the typical uniform of the guards in Azkaban. Harry doesn't explain him anything more. He merely pulls an arm around Lucius' waist and leads him further into the centre of the room, - and nearer the dreaded creature. Lucius is unable to hide a new flash of terror that rolls through him, wild and uncontrolled like a breaker that suddenly develops out of the sea, and it is only Harry's closeness that prevents him from bolting in terror.  
  
When they finally come to hold, much too close to the Dementor for Lucius' liking, Harry turns Lucius around, breathing a kiss on his lips. "Do you know who they are, my Pet?" he asks, while he lets his hand wander through Lucius' hair, which he's so very fond of.  
  
Lucius manages a weak shake of his head, not entirely sure how to interpret the strange situation. Even in the chaos of their daily life, there are a few things that are just a given, a constant part, giving him hold, like the ever present darkness. But this here, is absolutely bizarre. They're not supposed to come here. Harry's not supposed to be so ... unlike the new, not really improved version of him, and the Dementor ...  
  
Lucius shakes his head, not understanding, and he just wants to be back at Hogwarts, even if it would mean to deal with Harry's darkness. That is something he knows and can deal with, unlike this here. Why would they be here if not Harry would have grown tired of him?  
  
"Please ..." he wants to say, but no word is coming forth. And it is probably for the best, since he doesn't really know what he would or should ask for anyway.  
  
Lips are on his face; kissing away tears he doesn't even know are there. "Do you know?" He just shakes his head. He doubts he could say anything. "They are the ones responsible for Draco's death."  
  
Like thunder, the words echo in his ears. A third emotion is added to the fear and confusion as he looks at the wizard and the creature sprung out of nightmares: Rage. Not hidden, not shadowed but clear as razorblades, getting sharper with every moment. And he feels something he hasn't felt in a long time. He wants to attack. Not to hurt, but to kill.  
  
His son, his pride, his little dragon!  
  
Pain. Rage.  
  
This time he doesn't shake for fear. His hands are clenched to fists at his side, so strong that his fingernails are cutting into the flesh. It is a very welcome pain. He doesn't move a muscle, even stays rigid as Harry's hands wander over his face, caressing, or maybe just tracing the lines. He doesn't know and doesn't care. His eyes are fixed on the two creatures just a few steps away from them, while Harry's eyes are fixed on him, watching him with interest. A last kiss on his lips, then Harry steps back.  
  
Lucius has suddenly a wand in his hand. It feels utterly alien, and he almost lets go of it. He has no idea what to do with it either. It seems something like forever that he did last any magic – before this part of him was taken away from him, thanks to Severus' potion skills.  
  
It isn't his wand, which Harry has destroyed almost as soon as he got custody of him. It isn't Severus' either, so it is probably Dumbledore's or even Harry's own. He looks at Harry, utterly bewildered, not knowing what is expected of him. He doesn't think he has ever been so confused and in so desperate need of guidance.  
  
Harry is instantly at his side. "Try it," he urges him.  
  
Hot whisper in his ear, making him shiver. He wonders if Harry is so forgetful, that he doesn't know anymore, that he's taken his magic away from him, that he's unable to do even the most simple charm, or if this is supposed to be a new torment, another form of humiliation, or maybe just a test to see if he would dare to raise it against Harry. Lucius just shakes his head, too tired to wonder or even to argue and to ask questions, and does as he's told. He waves it once, and then almost drops it in surprise. He feels like he's in a fairy tale, or at least a dream as, for the first time in god knows how long, magic floods through his body and into his arm. In awe, he stares at the warm, golden sparks that materialize suddenly in front of him. He forces his attention away from the wand in his hand and to Harry, wonder and puzzlement in his eyes.  
  
He wants to ask why and how, but the words won't come, for when Harry steps forward, wand drawn as well, it isn't important anymore for he just knows what is going to happen, and he finds himself pathetically grateful for it. Revenge. Revenge for Draco. Sweet, relieving revenge.  
  
If he had any tears left, he would cry. So he does the next best thing:  
  
"Thank you."  
  
His voice sounds raspy, making him realize, that he hasn't spoken since the faithful day when he heard about Draco's death. The thought makes his chest tighten, and he forces himself to concentrate on the here and now. And even as he hears the first curse echoing through the room and raises his hand, he thinks that it will be a very fitting ending.  
  


* * *

  
The hands on his body are hot, almost unbearable so. Still, he involuntarily and very confounded arches into the touch, opens himself completely to the other man as Harry's mouth wanders over his skin. He is helpless under the onslaught which, for the first time in weeks, isn't dominated by pain but by a mix of pleasure that is so intense that it could be pain, and pain with just the right intensity to turn into pleasure when administered right. And Harry certainly knows how to do that.  
  
When Harry finally enters him, Lucius is reduced to a whining, whimpering, and dismaying begging mess, still flying on the high of what happened, while to the same time crying tears that speak of bitterness and pain. Especially the existence of the later he wants to ignore, but its presence, which just wants for him to lie down and rest and forget, is too strong as that he could do it.  
  
Pain, pleasure, bitterness, all blended together. His body reacts to the stimulation and lets him fly while he's claimed body, mind, and soul. Or at least what is left of it, and Lucius hasn't any illusion that it is much. He's probably as crazy as it is possible without going entirely over the edge. He doesn't know about his soul. Actually, he has a few doubts if he's ever had one, or, if yes, if he hasn't lost it somewhere on the way long ago. But if that would be the case, would it still hurt so much to think about Narcissa and Draco?  
  
Harry's lips are on his face; following some traces only he can see, whispering words that don't make any sense to Lucius. He doubts that they do to Harry. Not that it matters. In the end, nothing does.  
  
If he really thought that revenge would set him free, he couldn't have been more mistaken. He is still grateful for the opportunity Harry gave him, more than he could ever say, but in the end nothing has changed. Draco is still dead, and nothing will bring him back, and it still threatens to tear him apart. And wouldn't he be who he is, he would beg for a dose Avada Kedavra, would already have done so a long time ago. It is a real pity that he can't escape his name, not even in this situation.  
  
He presses his eyes tightly together until spots in the various colours appear in the darkness and allow him to concentrate on them instead of the reality. It is not that it is more pleasant, but it makes it easier to accept the strange turn his life has taken. For a moment, Harry either doesn't see that he has withdrawn, or doesn't mind. The latter unusual enough, but he doubts that anything could surprise him today.  
  
First the opportunity Harry has given him, than being able to do magic, and now this. He doesn't really want to know what it means that it hasn't once crossed his mind to turn against Harry when he did have the first occasion since Voldemort's downfall. Not that he would have had a chance. He has no illusions about that. It is just the fact that he, not for one moment, thought about it. But Harry is the only constant thing in his life and despite what his life consists of, he doubts he could live without it, without Harry. He doesn't even know if he really wants it. The latter is even worse because it makes it impossible to lie to himself. His craving for Harry is maybe the most real and true thing in his current life, whatever it says about him, - apart from the pain and his very real wish to just stop it all.  
  
Down and down and down. He wonders if there will be an end to the seemingly never-ending ascending spiral he's landed in.  
  
His fingers wind into the chains around his wrists holding him down while his body arches from the bed as teeth worry a nipple that, thanks to months of almost constant manipulation, has become oversensitive.  
  
"Soon."  
  
A dark promise, but a promise nevertheless. For whatever. For a short moment he thinks that there are tears in Harry's eyes, but it doesn't seem very likely and when he looks again there is indeed nothing but the unsettling green that can enchant and poison you simultaneously and before you even notice it.  
  
Suddenly his hands are free, allowing him to move unrestrained and to touch the other wizard. Hesitantly, he raises them, let them move forward before he comes to hold in mid-air, unsure of what to do, of what is expected of him.  
  
The decision is taken away from him, when Harry changes his angel. Just a bit, but it is enough to intensify the already almost unbearable pleasure that is assaulting Lucius. Without that he's really aware of it, his hands move over a slender body that surprises with its strength. With the next trust, the next stimulation that lets his body burn, they instinctively take hold of what they can reach, which, fortunately, happen to be Harry's shoulders, and nothing less solid.  
  
One thrust, two thrusts, then it is over. Lucius can feel his body reacting to the stimulation, to the overload of pleasure on his senses. With every fibre of his body, he can feel orgasm overtaking him. First agonizingly slow, letting time come to end, holding him between everything and nothing, a faint promise for something special. Then the last push and he's somewhere between heaven and hell, dying and being reborn to the same time, scattering, bursting, falling apart.  
  
Distantly, he can feel Harry increasing his thrusts, hands seizing his hips in a grip that will leave bruises on his pale skin, before the Dark Lord succumbs to pleasure with a low scream on his lips and collapses on top of Lucius.  
  
Lucius can't remember having ever experienced such a blinding pleasure before. Certainly not with Harry. It was not only the first time in a very long time, that he not only witnessed the whole act consciously, but that it was more than just pain as well. And it unnerves him. Just as much as the rest of the day did already, if not even more. This here is not the Harry he has learned to deal with during the past years. This here is ... just not right.  
  
Suddenly Harry is lying beside him, mumbling something unintelligible, while caressing Lucius' face and hair, and every bit of the body he can reach.  
  
" ... Draco."  
  
It is the only word that makes sense. Lucius wishes he wouldn't have understood it.  
  
 _Don't think about it. Don't!_  he tells himself, chanting it in his mind like a mantra. With more or less success. He doesn't think about it per se, doesn't hear Draco's voice, doesn't see the grey eyes ... (forces himself not to see them), but it is impossible to ignore the painful emptiness within him the one word has kindled.  
  
He closes his eyes when they start to burn again. His chest constricts, but he doubts he has any tears left. It is rather an instinctive shield against the world, against the unimaginable pain that has become his constant companion. In the past, it wouldn't have taken him more than a moment to compose himself. If at all. It doesn't work anymore. It is one of the many things he has lost somewhere on the way since the former golden soldier of the army of light made his interest in him known. Carrying masks and, even more, hiding behind them, were some of the worst offences as he learned very early on and Harry went lengthens to show him just how much it displeased him when Lucius did it.  
  
Like almost everything Harry does, it worked only too well.  
  
Lucius doesn't open his eyes when the mattress shifts, only trembles when Harry gets up and allows the cool air to assail his heated skin. He shivers. Lately it seems, he is always cold, always freezing. But it is something to hold onto, something with just enough substance to concentrate on, without the power to hurt ...  
  
"Drink." His eyes fly open. The soft, commanding voice that cuts through the welcome veil of nothingness that was just laying itself over his mind, is void any sentiment. Before Lucius can do more than blink, Harry presses a small bottle with some violet liquid against his lips.  
  
The bare features scare him but he complies nevertheless. Fighting would mean to get actively involved, and he's too exhausted for that. Not that he does have a choice. Refusal would mean punishment and pain, in the worst case even Imperius, and in the end he would drink it anyway.  
  
The liquid tastes sweet, like the candies his grandpa gave to him when he was a young child and visiting his grandparents on their country estate to spend the holidays there. He can almost taste the smell of the blossoming bushes that surrounded the spacious property, and hear the wind that swept through the window in the tree house he and his friends had built. Then the moment down memory lawn is over. Harry withdraws the empty bottle and tosses it aside. Lucius is almost grateful for it. He doesn't want to remember things long past.   
  
Coming to it, he doesn't want to remember anything at all. Not the past past, not the more recent past, and not the present. He forces himself to keep his mind from going a path that will threaten the last shards of his sanity if he would ever think about it again. He can deal with everything that happened until then, even his miserably excuse for an existence, but not that. There it is much better, less dangerous, to concentrate on the hands framing his face and the lips that wander over it. Not devouring, rather a soft brush. But before his body can convince his mind that it isn't just a hallucination and react on it, it is over. In one fluid movement, Harry comes to his feet and walks to the only window of the room, positioning himself so that Lucius can't see more than part of his back.  
  
The silence that settles over the room is special. Not in a good way. It is heavy and oppressing and he is grateful for his own ragged breathing that cuts in it and disturbs it.  
  
Coming to think of it, the whole atmosphere is more than oppressing and ominous. Lucius doesn't dare closing his eyes. He tries to move, to sit up. After some futile struggle, he opens his mouth to say something, to do something - anything - to cut into the strained and very unsettling atmosphere. But his body feels strangely numb and refuses to cooperate. He can't move a muscle. Despite the absence of pain it isn't relieving. On the contrary. To feel the pain, no matter how uncomfortable it is, has always shown him that he was still alive, despite everything. Not that it was a guarantee for anything, but it had meant something, it had been something even his slightly deluded mind understood. But this here ...  
  
Every muscle seems to be filled with lead and an overwhelming fatigue takes possession over him. But it appears to limit itself only to his body for his mind is clearer than anytime before. So clear in fact, that he can't even drift or escape. Maybe because of the absence of physical pain and discomfort, but that only makes it scarier. He doesn't want to think clearly, doesn't want to be able to really grasp what is happening around him. Because then a whole different kind of pain will return, one that would certainly tear him a part if he would ever allow it on the surface again.  
  
With all he has, he fights against the numbness, against the clearness. But despite all his effort, a rough croak is all he manages. Tears of frustration well unbidden up. This is not the way things are supposed to be. He is scared, no matter if he likes it or not, even more so when Harry returns to his side, lies down beside him again and pulls him against his chest. Not to hurt him, but just to hold him and to stroke his hair, it seems. Lucius wishes he could see his eyes, but his pitiful attempts at movement are just meet with a soothing sound. It is odd. More than anything that happened so far. Harry's presence, though, has, despite everything, a calming affect.  
  
"I am setting you free," he hears Harry whisper, his voice uncharacteristically rough. With an immense effort, Lucius finally turns around to see the face of his ... whatever Harry is to him. It is something he not even now can say. And when their eyes finally meet, his question is answered. The *why* is explained all over the familiar features of the man who owns him, who made his live a living hell and in essence has become his life.  
  
Love and hate, pain and pleasure, light and darkness, life and death - all this is mirrored in the green eyes. Along with worry, pain, grief, and an unspoken plea. All of them speaking for the two personalities that battle for dominance within Harry ever since he fought Dumbledore's last battle.  
  
And Lucius nods, answering Harry's, for this here is Harry, not the monster that comes out ever so often, plea for forgiveness. Green eyes close for a moment, then Harry leans forward, pressing a soft kiss on his lips.  
  
His view is blurring fast and darkens around the edges. He feels himself getting more tired with every passing moment. Then, completely unplanned, he takes a deep breath, gathering whatever strength he has left. "... love you ..." True words, he realizes, despite everything. It is what he can't explain. He forces that part of him to keep silent, that insists that this isn't true, that he can't love the one who has tormented and imprisoned him.  
  
Lips are on his face, kissing tears away he didn't know were there. "Sleep," it murmurs near his ear, and this time he isn't strong enough to withstand and closes his eyes ...  
  
 **-.-.-.-.-**


End file.
